


Too Many Kings

by Grundy



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Day 2 - Maglor, Feanorian week, Feanorian week 2017, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 11:36:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10411272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grundy/pseuds/Grundy
Summary: Makalaurë was briefly King of the Noldor, little though he - or anyone else, really - liked it.





	

When he heard of the coming of his uncle’s host, Makalaurë nearly wept.

He wasn’t really sure which emotion prompted the tears that sprung to his eyes – but relief was one of the dominant ones.

It was not that he couldn’t rule competently. Every single one of Fëanaro’s sons had been trained to lead as befitted a prince, not merely the eldest. Even Telvo could have ruled the Noldor had he been called upon to do so, and Makalaurë did not consider himself less talented than his baby brother.

It was just that he wasn’t meant to rule. A halfwit could see that Maitimo was the natural politician, the one whose true gift lay in people, not in things. Makalaurë hadn’t the patience, or the instinctive ease, or the trick of remembering every name and the face it went with (much less all the other faces and names that related to the face and name immediately before him.)

He desperately wanted to turn the task of being in charge of the Noldor over to someone else so he could focus on something only marginally less difficult: being in charge of his brothers.

They’d been a wayward lot even at the best of times, and these are _not_ the best of times.

He’d call them the worst of times, but Makalaurë was starting to fear that would be tempting fate. (And Fate, Doom, or however one chose to term it, is definitely not on their side.)

Of course, after the first meeting between them, Makalaurë did weep.

He waited until he was alone – as he so rarely was these days, between retainers, messengers, courtiers, brothers, dogs, and his poor nephew – to let them spill. And for once, he made sure to keep his silence. No sound would betray that the King of the Noldor was crying, and not artistic tears, but ugly ones that would normally have been accompanied by horrible, shuddering sobs.

Because it’s all so broken.

The hope in the back of his head that has been a comfort in the darkest days, the thought that at least his cousins are safe in a land that may be darkened but is still protected by the Valar, has been a lie all along.

His uncle held to his word as stubbornly as his father had. Nolofinwë had led his people – and his children, and his nephews, and one headstrong niece who still didn’t believe in doing what she was told – over the Grinding Ice. They have been freezing and starving and dying ever since Losgar, it was just that their troubles and deaths were out of sight.

As if that mattered, given that three Kings of the Noldor have given them little to no thought whatsoever.

There will be no forgiveness. Makalaurë had needed only a handful of seconds in his uncle’s presence to know that. Nolofinwë might have been able, in time, to absolve his nephews of abandoning him. But not his children, and certainly not his people.

As for his cousins – well, the best he could say was that there had been no bloodshed between them. Yet.

Artanis had flatly refused to acknowledge his authority, much less his brothers, speaking instead to their uncle, looking to Nolofinwë whenever someone spoke to or of ‘the King’. Irissë had not been permitted to attend by her father lest she incite violence, and Laurefindil had been left behind to ensure she did not follow. Even Finderato, generally the most even-tempered of the lot, had a hard look eyes grown colder when he gazed on the sons of Fëanaro.

His brothers, of course, had not taken it at all well. Tyelko’s temper had been curbed only by the combined efforts of Moryo and Curvo, and fierce pointed glares from Makalaurë to remind him the importance of not making everything worse.

It had been fairly gruesome as it was.

Makalaurë had not only had to break the news of Fëanaro’s death but also Maitimo’s capture and presumed captivity. They assumed captivity, but could they really be sure it was not death? (Makalaurë hated himself for the thought that it might be kinder for Nelyo if they were wrong, and death had come swiftly. The tales the Sindar told of thralls and orcs were not encouraging.)

And, of course, the explanation of why, if their king was captive, he had done nothing to retrieve him.

“Nelyo made me promise” seemed such a weak excuse in the privacy of his own head, but it was worse still when “I gave Maitimo my word at his behest” was spoken aloud.

Once the Nolofinwions had retreated to the other side of the lake – with something that was not _quite_ a command from Nolofinwë for his elder brother’s sons and their people to keep away from his children, Arafinwion kin, and their followers for the safety and well-being of all – Tyelko had voiced his outrage in full.

“You are their _king_ , how dare they treat you thus!” he roared. “They would not have treated Atto so!”

“I don’t know,” Curvo had said, oddly subdued. “I rather think one or two of them might have attempted kinslaying had Atar still been with us. They were not happy, but at least they know it was not _our_ idea to burn the ships.”

Makalaurë wasn’t sure if he meant their uncle, Finno and Turvo, or Artanis and Irissë, and he didn’t really want to think about it. Nor did he share his brother’s apparent confidence that their cousins knew it wasn’t their idea to abandon them.

He also didn’t want to think about the possibility that his uncle, far from being the help he secretly hoped for, might actually undermine him. Not out of any particular desire for revenge or true wish to see him fail, but because it was clear that while he might have been able to come to some working arrangement with Maitimo, he did not view Makalaurë as having authority greater than himself.

But there was nothing Makalaurë could do to make it better. To make it better, he would had to have chosen differently – at Losgar, in Alqualondë, or best of all in Tirion. Looking back, he couldn’t even say why he had thrice chosen to obey his father rather than follow his heart.

_A king who can’t even rule himself_ , he thought bitterly. _And surrounded by princes who all believe themselves better kings. This cannot end well._


End file.
